A Chance to say Goodbye
by JohnWatson-Holmes
Summary: "People always have so many chances to say goodbye," Sherlock sniffled and rapidly blinked, his voice full of emotion, "and I never had the chance to." NO DEATH
1. Chapter 1

"Lestrade, shock blankets, now!" I could hear Sherlock's panicked shout resound through the freezer. His voice sounded so far away from where I lay curled up. I could feel the vibrations peoples' feet caused from where I was at the corner of the room.

I think Moriarty had gotten to me again. Wait, yeah, he did. I don't remember a whole lot of everything that had happened. I know Sherlock and I had fought and I had left. I think that's when Moriarty captured me.

I could feel the bitter cold from the cement floor him my limbs, especially in my bad shoulder. As far I could tell I was not wearing any clothing. I knew I had the first stages of hypothermia, maybe even further than that. How long had I even been in there already?

I felt the sting of whip marks and burns all across my body as a shock blanket was placed over me. I probably looked so pathetic lying there, beaten, bloodied, and broken.

I didn't want to open my eyes. I didn't want to move. Was it Sherlock wrapping the shock blanket around me? I felt so humiliated. I didn't want anyone to see me like this, especially Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock's calmed voice called to me as his hands stroked over my hair, "John open your eyes," the words coaxed. I squeezed them tighter together, wanting to huddle into myself and block out the world. Sherlock did not let that happen.

He lifted me off the ground and into his arms, keeping the shock blankets securely around me so no one could see my nakedness. I could feel myself trembling against him and now I could hear my teeth chattering. I could hear more voices now, those of which including Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan.

Sherlock carried me all the way into what I assumed was an ambulance before loading me up onto the stretcher. I reached out with my hand blindly, wanting him to take hold of it. He grasped onto it quickly and held on tightly. He was wearing his gloves.

"…lock," my voice rasped out. My throat burned when I spoke and I could feel the bruising on my windpipe. How many more injuries did I have? I could feel my body start to warm off and all the pain begin to break through the numbness.

Sherlock did not respond, so I forced myself to speak again. "Sherlock," my voice cracked. God that hurt. Whenever I tried to speak I felt like thousands of razor blades were trying the force their way out. The EMT's were working around my body to hook me up to this and that.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, his mouth placed next to my ear so I could hear him. I opened my eyes to look up into his. What I saw I could only describe in a poetic way.

Those beautiful, slivery green-blue eyes bore into mine. His pupils were dark and blown wide, reigned in by the churning teal sea. Silver specks mingled in with the sea of color, growing greener towards the pit of black. Tears gathered at the corners, placing a light sheen over Sherlock's eyes. His eyelashes were moist and brushed against the dark colored bags under his eyes when he blinked.

I could see a thousand different words in those eyes. 'I'm sorry. I love you. Are you okay? I want you safe. Why did you leave? I'm stupid. I hate myself. I wish this never happened. Why did he do this? Why you? Why not me? It hurts. I missed you.'

"People always have so many chances to say goodbye," Sherlock sniffled and rapidly blinked, his voice full of emotion, "and I never had the chance to."

I could hear the anguish in his words as he spoke. I could feel his hand tightening its grip around my own. I could feel his tears, hot and wet, dripping down onto my own face as they spilled over his eyes. I could hear the shuddering breaths he took to try and remain calm. I could feel his body shaking next to mine. I could feel his heart breaking in a way that only made mine fall apart as well. He really thought he had lost me.

"I don't ever want to let go again John," his words broke through my thoughts. He sounded like he was in so much pain, like he was feeling so much hurt because of me, "I can't bear to lose you. You're the only one I've ever let in. The only one I've ever let see me at my strongest and at my weakest. You're the only one I've ever let myself truly care about and trust. You're the only one John," Sherlock sobbed out, resting his head against mine.

I felt my own tears stream down from my eyes and mingle with his as they continued falling down. My heart ached to see him like this. I couldn't do anything to make it better. I couldn't stop his tears from falling. I couldn't even promise him that I'd never leave.

I lay there as he continued to shudder and lament, feeling my heart crack further and further until it finally shattered and I could not help but cling onto him and break down.

I remembered lying there, shuddering on the floor of the cooler as the whip struck me, thinking that I'd never see Sherlock again. That I'd never be able to apologize for everything. Even when Moriarty chided me and sang out that I would never be saved, I could only think about never having been able to apologize to Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," I choked out, not caring about the pain, only caring about the man in my arms. The man who could outlive God by having the last word. The man who saved me from my loneliness. The man who saved my life hundreds of times over. The man who held my whole entire world up and kept me from falling into space.


	2. Chapter 2

I jolted out of bed as I felt the sting of morphine shoot through my veins. A nurse was administering the medication into my IV and smiled at me before capping the used needle and binning it. My whole body thrummed with the pain medicine and I eased back down, shutting my eyes.

"John?" Sherlock's voice called to me. In my haze, I glanced over at him and gave a Cheshire grin. His hair was all frizzy and messy from sleep. It was cute. He still held my hand in his.

"Hey," I whispered out, feeling my voice protest at the sudden usage. I could see Sherlock's features soften as he relaxed.

"Scoot over," he ordered me and helped me adjust myself on the far left of the bed. He climbed up beside me and placed my hand, still entwined with his, over his heart. I sighed in content and leaned my head to the side to rest on his shoulder. His head lay over mine and we both relaxed.

"I missed you," I, again, whispered so my voice would not be strained. He nodded and reached his other hand over to stroke my hair. I could feel the steady beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. "I never meant to leave you," I said, wanting to explain everything. It did not matter if my voice hurt or if Sherlock even wanted to hear it. I needed to say everything or else he would never know.

"He really was going to kill me this time," I muttered out, trying not to face the onslaught of memories. Moriarty always loved to toy with his victims before finishing them off.

"He said he wanted to burn the heart out of me," Sherlock spoke to me in return, tightening his hand around mine. I almost wanted to take that chance to give a mirthless laugh.

"Too bad for me that your heart was already out of you," I bit out, hearing my voice grow hoarser the more I kept talking. I knew that what I just said would not sit well with Sherlock, but he needed to hear everything. When else would I be given the chance to say all this?

"John," Sherlock's voice was pensive. I could feel him grow still next to me and stop to listen.

"Why do I have to take every hit for you? Why am I always the one targeted?" I spoke loudly, raising my voice in my anger and frustration. Sherlock just lay next to me, not speaking a word. I continued on. "Why does it always have to be me that gets hurt and has to deal with the bullshit? I'm sick of it!" I had shouted this time, feeling the ache in my neck and throat.

Sherlock remained stock-still and silent, just listening, always listening. "Why can I not save you once in a while?" my voice cracked now as tears pooled over in my eyes. I could feel my body start to shake. Sherlock, now deciding to move, turned over and pulled me into him. He was careful not to yank on any of the tubes or cording.

"Oh, but John, you have," Sherlock told me, his voice abnormally calm. "You have saved me so much more that you remember. Such as the crazed cabby, the money hoarding Chinese woman, when dealing with The woman, the scientist and the 'hound', and most of all you saved me from myself," Sherlock explained in such I way that I could only just listen to him.

"From yourself?" I echoed, trying to remember back far enough to the time when Sherlock and I first met. It seemed like so long ago that he and I were complete strangers to each other. Well, he was a complete stranger to me seeing as he knew my whole life story by just one look.

"Yes John," Sherlock murmured into my ear, causing a shiver to rush down my spine. I did remember meeting him, thinking how much of an arrogant arse he was. Hell, I could not lie to myself, I fell the growing bond between us when we first met. It was obvious to everyone at that time that Sherlock and I would go far with each other, but the two of us were too blind to see it.

I sniffed and huddled my face into his collarbones, wanting to hide my tears from him. "I," my voice cracked and turned down to an almost inaudible level. I swallowed and tried to form words again. "I love you," I choked out, my voice shattering into a sob as I brought my hand up to cover my mouth. I did not want him to hear the obnoxious sobs.

"I know John," Sherlock said under his breath, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. His lips were warm and I could feel the heat lingering on the spot. I could feel a tremor go through Sherlock's body as well. We both had to heal together, physically and emotionally, after what we had just been through.

"I felt as though I made a mistake letting you leave," Sherlock divulged, keeping his voice low and soft. "I could not stand those days that you were gone," another shudder ran through his body, "I knew something had happened."

I delicately moved my arms and wrapped them around his waist. I could fell his heart beating in his chest. I tilted my head up to place a kiss on the bottom of his chin. He heaved a jittery sigh and moved his head down to hold his lips against my forehead. I could feel the small tears falling down from his eyes onto my face.

Lying there with Sherlock, heated by his body, I felt the morphine strum through my veins and start to pull me down deeper out of awareness. My body was exhausted and I could barely stand to keep my eyes open.

"Be here when I wake up," I whispered to Sherlock, relaxing my body and falling into the haze just before sleep.

"Always," Sherlock spoke gently and held onto me tighter.


	3. Chapter 3

I choked out another scream as the whip struck down against my back. Pain burned white hot all the way up and down my spine. Moriarty's high laughter was all I could hear over the crack of the whip and my own screams.

"He will never find you," he spoke in a singsong voice and let the whip crack against my back once more. I arched away and onto the cold floor, desperately trying to cover my nakedness.

"He will," I bit out, biting at my lips hard enough to cause them to bleed so I would not shout out again. Raising my voice would only allow him to feel his sick pleasure from beating me. Suddenly, I heard him storm over.

I was yanked up by a firm grip on my slightly overgrown hair. I whimpered at the prickling pain the grip caused on my hair follicles. I was roughly shoved against the freezer's wall. I yelped out at the cold, hating myself for voicing my displeasure.

Moriarty pressed his face in close to mine, so close that I could feel his warm breath along my cheeks. "He won't want you back," Moriarty hissed out to me, throwing my down on the floor so that I landed on my back before continuing, "that is if he even finds you," he chuckled out and brought the whip down onto my front where most of the burn marks were already blistering.

"Fuck!" I shouted out as the whip lashed across my stomach. I curled in on myself and turned away from Moriarty. That earned me a kick to the kidneys. My whole body tensed from the agony and I was nearly sick.

"Don't you turn away from me!" Moriarty screamed, accenting each word with a lash of the whip. I could feel the blood, my blood, hot and wet dripping down from my wounds. At this point, I could not stop my teeth from chattering in the cold and from the shock my body was receiving.

"He will never love you," Moriarty sneered and I could just picture his face as he did so. How much longer was this going to last? How long would be continue to torture me and break me down? I heard him raise the whip up again and then the air whooshing as the tendrils at the end met my back.

"No!" I cried out, this time hearing my own voice coming from my damaged throat. Sherlock jolted next to me as I sprang up. He eyes were wild as he searched the room for any kind of danger. I cringed in on myself, grasping my left wrist tightly.

From jumping up into a sitting position, I had torn the IV and heart-monitoring clip from my hand. The machines proceeded to traumatically beep and I could hear feet rushing down the hallway to my room.

Sherlock was quick to remove himself from the bed and pinch the IV needles cord so no more medication would leak out. A couple of nurses and a doctor rushed in to access the situation and I could hear them sigh as they saw everything was, for the most part, okay.

"He had a nightmare," Sherlock explained, stepping back from the bed so the doctor could replace the IV and patch up the small gash I received from the needle being jerked out. After the hassle, they dispersed from the room, leaving just Sherlock and I once more.

I already felt the tears streaming down my face from the memories. Sherlock wrapped an arm around me and held my close to his chest. I sniffled and took in a shaky breath.

"He told me you would never love me," I gasped as my shuddering chest irritated my wounds and bruising. I sighed as the morphine rolled through my veins quicker due to Sherlock squeezing the IV bag.

"Wrong," Sherlock replied curtly, still holding me against him. "No matter how hard Moriarty could have tried he could never take me away from you," Sherlock consoled me, looking around the room at the white washed walls and paintings of flowers on the walls.

It suddenly dawned upon me that I did not remember much of what Moriarty had said to me. My chest ached and my stomach twisted as paranoia set in. He had to have said something pertaining to Sherlock, right? He must have.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock questioned me as soon as I felt my anxiety spike. He could always tell with me. Sherlock always knew when something was wrong or when I realized something.

"I don't," I paused and corrected myself, "can't remember most of what he said. What if he said something that was important?" I rushed out and stared up at Sherlock with panic. Generally, I would be calmer, except my body was still going through the shock and I was a bit drugged up.

Sherlock just stared back at my for a while, taking in my features and deducing what he could from me. The steady beat of the monitor filled the room as we looked at each other.

"It is fine," Sherlock finally spoke. I calmed afterwards and leaned back into the pillows. He clamored back into the bed and let me snuggled up next to him. "You need more sleep," he told me gently, using his hand to pet my hair.

"Promise?" I questioned lazily, referring to earlier when I asked him to be next to be when I woke up.

Again, he replied with, "Always."


	4. Chapter 4

I awakened to Sherlock shaking my shoulder gently. I looked around to see that I had been unhooked form the machinery and my IV was out. I tossed a quizzical look towards Sherlock before sitting up and rubbing my sore wrist.

I could feel the scabs pull against my tender skin as I sat up and I sighed out through the pain. Sherlock moved closer, and I knew he wanted to help, but he could not touch many places because of the wounds.

"They are sending you home today," Sherlock informed me, taking up to stroking a long, pale hand through my sandy colored hair again. I nodded dumbly and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "They want me to help you in the shower here first so they can re-bandage you," he concluded. I once again nodded and reach my arms out towards him.

Chuckling, Sherlock braced his hands under my armpits and I placed mine on his shoulders. We maneuvered enough so I could swing my legs out of the bed and then Sherlock helped me to stand. Through the motions I could feel a few of the scabs tear and I blinked away the tears and pain.

"Can you walk?" Sherlock asked me, still bracing his hands under my arms. I waited out the pain before speaking. In that time I noticed Sherlock had his own dressing gown on the bed, the blue one. It was my favorite one, so I assumed he brought it for me to wear. There was also a pair of thick cotton pants and a long sleeve black shirt. My slippers lay next to the pile of clothing.

"Yeah, but I just need your help," I told Sherlock, starting to take tiny steps towards the bathroom. Sherlock supported me the whole way until we were in there. Once in, Sherlock spun me to be facing away from him to he could take the hospital gown off.

Once the ties were undone he let it drop to the floor. I heard the small breath he took as he absorbed everything he was seeing on my back. Glancing at the full size mirror that was nearly perfectly behind me, I could see the extent for myself.

Plasters and bandages covered most of my back, little rectangular shapes showing where all the different wounds were. I did not even want to look down at my front, arms, or legs. I already knew that scrapes, cuts, burns, and gashes were everywhere.

"Oh John," Sherlock sighed out and dropped a kiss onto my shoulder, just above the scar I received during the war. I whimpered, fighting my anxiety of Sherlock seeing the wounds. "I'm going to start removing all the bandaging now," Sherlock told me before setting to work.

I refused to look anymore as the wounds were uncovered little by little. Sherlock was careful not to hurt me or disturb the injuries even further. It was kind of him. I stayed standing there until I heard the water of the shower turn on.

"Come on in," Sherlock called, and I finally opened my eyes. Sherlock had taken the time to strip himself of his own clothing and was under the spray of the warm water. I smiled at him and shuffled in, taking a seat on the shower bench.

Sherlock washed my hair first, cleaning away bits of dried blood and filth. Lathering the soap onto my scalp he proceeded to massage it all in. I nearly moaned in content as his fingers dug in and scraped along my head. He was a god when it came to this.

"Tilt your head back and keep your eyes closed," Sherlock ordered me and I did as was told. I heard him take the nozzle off the hook and felt the water wash out all of the soap and bubbles. Trickles of the water rolled down my back and I bit my lip as some of my cuts stung. He soothed away the pain by kissing each of my eyelids and hanging the nozzle back up.

Soaping up a sponge, Sherlock began to wipe around my injuries. He used delicate pressure over the scabs and blisters and spent a long time cleaning my back. Through the burning and stinging pain, Sherlock was humming a melody of some sort. I could not place it.

Sherlock, after cleaning me up, set to quickly cleaning himself off. I sat in perfect patience, inhaling the steam wafting off the hot water and letting it sooth my throat. I opened my eyes slowly as the tap was turned off.

Sherlock's dark brown, nearly black hair lay in waved strands across his face. None of its usual volume stayed as the curls were weighed down by the water. His bright eyes gazed at me and I smiled up at him.

"Feel better?" He asked, stepping over to wrap a fluffy towel around his waist. I watched him pick up another and walk towards me, intent on helping my get dry.

"Much," I answered as Sherlock dried me off. I changed into boxers and was dry by the time a nurse came in to replace my bandages. Once all of that was said and done, Sherlock helped me get the rest of the way dressed and wrapped me up in his dressing gown.

Sherlock had already had me sign the paperwork and now all that was left to do was go back to Baker Street.

"Mycroft has a car waiting for us," Sherlock spoke while wheeling me down the hallway in a wheelchair. We passed by dozens more rooms, nurses, and doctors. "He says that taxi would be not that comfortable. I, for once, completely agree," Sherlock continued to ramble on about this and that.

In my hands I held the prescription for painkillers and burn creams. I knew that Mycroft would handle these affairs, seeing as Sherlock would probably forget. I decided to cut in and interrupt Sherlock's rant.

"What happened to Moriarty?" I questioned him, genuinely curious. I remembered blacking out and waking up to Sherlock's shouting however long later. Sherlock went silent and did not answer me. "Sherlock?" I pressed him for the information.

"He's gone again," Sherlock said with a slight malice. I sighed and slumped in the wheelchair. I already assumed that he had gotten away. Sherlock remained unusually quiet after that until we got back to Baker Street.

Sherlock practically carried me up the stairs to our flat and set me on the couch. I looked around to see that the place was not a total mess. The kitchen and the living room looked remarkably clean. Either Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the place or Sherlock did.

I stretched out on the couch and eased myself into a lying position. I felt little discomfort and pulled a blanket around myself from where it lay draped on the back on the couch. Sherlock paced around in front of me before stopping and noticing I was lying down.

"Are you tired?" he asked me, sitting on the edge of the couch near my feet. I nodded my head. "I can carry you to bed if you'd like," Sherlock offered me and I once again nodded my head. Curling up next to him and being able to hear his heartbeat was one of my guilty pleasures, and I would be damned to pass up the offer of doing so. Sherlock craft fully lifted me into his arms and carried my back to our bedroom, which was originally his. I left the blanket wrapped around myself and lay myself back into the pillows. Sherlock laid himself next to me and wrapped his arms around me, one resting under my body and the other around my chest.

"I like hearing your heartbeat," I admitted to him as I pressed my ear to his chest. The resounding 'thump, thump' calmed me and let me relax further. The morphine was doing its job of stopping most of my pain. Sherlock chuckled and I could feel the vibrations through him.

"My heartbeat? Honestly John?" Sherlock asked incredulously, a little smirk playing across his lips.

"Yeah," I answered with a grin. "It reminds me that you are right here with me," I murmured, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage. His hands were large and warm against my back and his body radiated body heat. I was immersed in the scent of him and whatever cologne he wore.

"Are you going to fall asleep?" Sherlock asked me, knowing that I had slept most of the time I was in the hospital.

"No," I answered truthfully, "I just wanted to cuddle for a while," I informed him and brought my own arm up around his shoulders. He chuckled again and I gave a small smile in his direction before resting my head back against his chest.

"Do you want to hear a story?" Sherlock questioned me out the blue. I lifted my head and rested my chin on his sternum.

"About what?" I asked back, watching his facial features.

"My childhood," Sherlock answered simply. I nodded my head and rested it back onto his chest to listen. "When I was just a kid, about nine or so years old, I wanted to raise bees," Sherlock spoke in and earnest tone.

"Seriously? Bees?" I giggled at the hilarity of the idea.

"Yes John," Sherlock smiled, "I have always found them so fascinating and I have always wanted to study them in greater detail. Nevertheless, that seems like the thing I would do when I have retired from being a consulting detective. That, I must say, is a long ways off." Sherlock continued to talk about the bee keeping.

"I will raise them with you," I told him and I could see his face light up just the slightest bit, "if you'll let me that is."

"Of course I would John," Sherlock exclaimed with a happy tone. I laughed and moved my legs to entwine with his. The morphine was not going to wear off for a while so I was content to lay pressed against Sherlock until then.

Soon enough, Sherlock pulled another blanket up around the two of us and kissed the top of my head softly. He held his lips there for over a second until he pulled away and smoothed down the ruffled spot he caused.

"Liar," he murmured to me when he saw my eyes shut and my breathing evening out.

"I'm not asleep," I mumbled, "Not yet at least." That earned a chuckled from Sherlock and another kiss. In this moment, everything felt so right and I could do nothing but fall into my dream world. Little did I know of was the plan formulating in Sherlock's brain at the same time dreams were clouding mine.


	5. Chapter 5

Slowly my senses came back to me and my brain slipped into awareness. The bed was empty and the sheets where Sherlock once lay were cold. The thick blanket had been entirely wrapped around me and Sherlock's dressing gown still curled around my body.

I opened my eyes to see the room was just as it was before. No signs of a break in or any impending danger to explain Sherlock's disappearance. Shuffling under the covers, I managed to free myself from the blankets. I hefted my legs over the side of the bed and swung up in one smooth motion. My body thrummed with pain and I breathed through it. After a couple hours of disuse my skin had tightened around the scabs and did not want to be stretched.

I ignored the pain and stood up, twisting back to pop my vertebrae. Next I popped my shoulders and elbows to loosen up and my neck was last. I heaved in a deep breath and exhaled, already feeling more awake and rejuvenated. I glanced around the room, noting the overfilled bookshelf and periodic table, yet still no Sherlock. I could not hear any noise from elsewhere in the flat as I hobbled out of the bedroom. I began to think that Sherlock was out on a case. I checked my phone to see no new texts from Sherlock or Lestrade.

Shuffling to the bathroom, I went about my morning business of relieving myself and brushing my teeth. I quickly spat out the toothpaste and rinsed my mouth out. There were still no signs of Sherlock. Tying the blue dressing gown tighter around my waste, I went back into the bedroom to see if he had left a note somewhere. The most logical place to put the note would be the nightstand, so I checked there first. Nope, no note lay by the alarm clock or lamp. I looked at the pillow Sherlock's head lay on in hopes of seeing a sheet of paper, but I had no such luck.

"Maybe he left one in the kitchen," I mumbled to myself, drawing my hand up and tapping my fingers against my lips in concentration. I walked back out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to look for a note of some sort. The kitchen was still superbly clean and it seemed as though Sherlock had not touched a thing all morning. Turning the kettle on while I went past it, I hunched over the kitchen table and looked around. I still could not find a note or any sort. I looked at the cupboard doors and fridge door and still saw nothing. Sighing, I went into the living room.

There was not note on the coffee table or on the mantle by the fireplace. There were no signs of Sherlock even being in the room at all. I sighed again and plopped down into my recliner chair.

"Sherlock always leaves a note or texts," I thought to myself. I could feel a headache start to come on and my body start to continually ache. My painkillers were resting on the counter next to the fridge to I popped a couple out of the bottle and swallowed them dry. The water would soon be boiling so I moved to grab my tea.

Reaching up into the cupboard, an envelope fell out and plopped against my feet. Curiosity took over my better judgment and I stretched down to pick it up. It took me a little longer than usual to get up as I had to be mindful of my injuries. On the front of the royal blue envelope was my name written in Sherlock's long scrawl. Of course Sherlock would put the note right where I always looked in the morning. I smiled to myself at the thoughtfulness of his hiding place and sat down at the kitchen table. The tea was longer forgotten to me as I carefully opened the note.

After unfolding the top I pulled out a single, folded sheet of paper. The paper was the fancy, stationary paper Sherlock used when he wanted to write letters. He usually used it when he wrote me notes, but today something seemed different with this one sheet. Unfolding the note, I laid it across the table so I could read it.

"_John,_

_This isn't goodbye._

_I'm not leaving because of you. I'm leaving because of the scars._

_Because every time I look at you (you're sleeping now, peacefully for once), _

_I see Him._

_I'm sorry. I'm saying this all wrong. "A bit not good," you would say, if you could see me laboring this long over such a clumsy note._

_You'd laugh, too._

_You don't laugh enough._

_I'll find him. Tell Lestrade not to worry too much, I'm sure he can muddle though the cases on his own. As for his latest, tell him to look for the owner of the black terrier; She's the killer. _

_Tell my brother… __Never mind, he'll figure it out eventually._

_I'll find him for you._

_Goodbye_

_Sincerely_

_I love you,_

_Sherlock Holmes_"

Tears were pouring down my face as I read this. "Not goodbye?" I questioned to myself aloud, my voice choked with emotion. "You could never come back, you daft git," I cried and covered my face with both hands and leaned over on myself. This morning was supposed to be perfect. I was supposed to wake up with Sherlock in my arms and spend the day cuddling with him and just talking. Nothing would have prepared me for him leaving.

I stood up suddenly, intent on finding my phone and calling him. This time, as I stood up, I felt a heavy object in the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown pat against my leg in motion. I froze as a feeling a dread crept up though my spine and causing my heart to speed.

I closed my eyes and fought back more tears as I reached into the pocket and pulled the item out. Bringing it up to where I knew I would see it, I opened my eyes. There, in my hand, was Sherlock's phone. Unlocking it, I saw there was the draft for a text open. Looking at it, I heard the sob leave my throat and I dropped the phone to the floor. I fell back into my chair and felt broken.

Lighting up the screen was a picture Sherlock had taken of me while I was asleep last night. I was shown curled up and nuzzling my face into his chest with his dressing gown twisted around me in all different ways. He was smiling up at the camera when he took the picture, his bright blue eyes softly glowing in the darkness of the bedroom. 'I love you' was typed into the text box just below the picture and my name was in place for the contact. I do not know how long I sat there and cried, but it was long enough as the sun had risen in the sky. The phone still lay on the ground where I dropped it and I still sat on the chair by midday. The kettle had steamed itself out and now had barely any water left in it. I did not care. All I wanted was for Sherlock, my Sherlock, to come back home.


	6. Chapter 6

I finally managed to snap myself out of my stupor as the tears in my eyes ran dry. I stretched down and picked up Sherlock's phone, feeling the bandages pull taught against my back as I did so. Clicking open a new message, I told Lestrade what he needed to know about the case involving the black terrier. I did not care to wait for a reply, so I lay Sherlock's phone on the table and stumbled back into the bedroom. I deftly stripped my clothing off and tossed Sherlock's robe onto the unmade bed. My pajamas landed elsewhere on the hard wood floor.

I reached the closet and opened the doors. I grabbed at a clean pair of jeans and then pulled then on. I picked out the darkest pair I could find. Then I pulled on my navy-black striped sweater and adjusted it so it fit comfortably over my bandages. I wiped a hand over my eyes to clear away the dried tear tracks. I was not thinking as I walked over to the dresser and grabbed a pair of socks. My bandages really needed to be changed and my wounds needed to be cleaned. However, at this point in time, I could not have cared less.

Once I had the socks on, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand where Sherlock had set it the night before and hobbled towards the front door. I paused half way to the door, seeing the note on the table where I had just grabbed Sherlock's phone. I swiped the sheet of paper off the table and then put it into my pocket.

I was going to contemplate grabbing my coat before I saw another thing Sherlock had left me with. His scarf was draped across my coat and the hook on the back of the door. If I could have shed any more tears, I would have then. I could feel the tremors working their way through my body as I reached for the simple piece of material.

It was soft to the touch, perfectly threaded and weaved together. The blue tones complimented each other and mixed in perfect harmony with the black threads. My hands faltered as I pulled the scarf around my neck and looped it though itself like Sherlock had done. Taking in a breath, I made the journey of going down the stairs to the door leading out into London. I managed to make it to the bottom by using the railing and wall as a support. I slipped on my shoes, which were resting on the mat near the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson must have cleaned the mud off from the last criminal chase, as they were clean when I put them on.

I pushed open the door of 221b Baker Street and filed in with the crowd of walking people. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to hail a cab. My hands rested in my front pockets as I walked and I kept my head turned down and away from the cloudy sky. After long enough, I found myself in front of a door. Not just any door, but I stood in front of the door to Lestrade's house. I simply stared at it for a long while, not shaking from my thoughts. Raising my hand up, I rang the doorbell and waited for the DI to come answer.

The door opened quickly and Lestrade stood there, looking a bit rumpled from just waking up. "Oh, hello John. I just got Sherlock's text," Lestrade paused as suddenly as he had started to speak. I must have looked terrible in his eyes. "What's wrong? Why are you out like this? Come inside, I'll make some tea," Lestrade quickly continued, ushering me into his home. He and the wife were having an out again, possibly for good this time from what I could tell. Seems like he was not going to be the only one alone now.

Once inside, I collapsed numbly onto his couch and withdrew Sherlock's phone from my pocket. I opened another text, placed Mycroft as the contact, and typed a message that would hopefully allow the British government to show himself. It read, '_Lestrade's house. Come quickly. John needs help.'_

I knew I should not be voicing myself as Sherlock, but I, as I said before, could not care less about things. Lestrade made quick work of tea and placed a steaming cup in front of my before sitting on the couch next to me.

"What's wrong?" He asked again, this time more forceful. His brown eyes showed clean worry as I glanced over at him. My throat felt pinched and dry, like I could not speak even if I had wanted to. I knew he could see Sherlock's scarf around my neck, but that did not mean much in his eyes.

"He's gone," I finally managed to choke out, my voice sounding weak and hoarse. Lestrade watched me for a few more seconds before my words finally hit him. I watched his eyes widen and his body tense in shock.

"What?" Lestrade, no, Greg exclaimed. He was gob smacked at the thought that Sherlock would just suddenly leave. I could just picture the look on Anderson's and Donovan's face when they will hear Sherlock betrayed me. "Why?" Lestrade questioned.

I simply shook my head as my limbs started to shake again. New tears pricked at my vision and just as I was going to let them fall, the doorbell rang again. Greg hurried to answer the door and I took that time to calm myself as best as I could. I heard Mycroft's voice as he strolled into the living area and took a seat in the chair. His umbrella was gone, probably forgotten, and he looked tired. Of course, he would already know that Sherlock is gone.

"I came as soon as I got your message," Mycroft answered an unspoken question. Greg had dashed up to his room to put on more suitable clothing, leaving Mycroft and I in the living room alone. The tea sat on the table in front of me still. I brought a hand up to stroke the scarf and looked up at Mycroft with watery eyes.

"Where?" I whispered out, unable to raise my voice for fear of letting out another torrent of emotions. His face was pained and I could see the worry lines on his forehead. He was as distraught as me.

"I do not know," Mycroft answered with a withering expression. Greg appeared back on the couch next to me, so I knew here heard. The three of us knew each other for long enough that masks and fake emotions were not needed. Mycroft's words struck me and I shuddered and let out a sob. The walls broke again and my emotions flooded out. Now Greg and Mycroft would get to see a new side of Captain John Watson that only Sherlock had even seen.

Greg's arm quickly wrapped around my shoulders and I was tugged into the side of his chest. "Hey, hey, it's okay," Greg spoke, "Things will be fine," he finished saying. I shook my head harshly and felt a scab open up under a bandage. Pulling a hand away from my face, I pulled out the crumpled note and tossed in on the table near Mycroft.

I did not want to break down like some teenager, but this was Sherlock. He was playing up against Moriarty and his crew and from my most recent experience; they were not against mindless torture. He might never come back.

I kept my face hidden against Greg's chest as Mycroft folded out the note so that he could read it. In a matter of seconds the note was folded back up and Mycroft slipped it into the inner pocket of his vest.

"What does it say?" Greg was concerned, I could tell from the way his voice quivered ever so slightly and the way his arm tightened around me. Mycroft sighed heavily.

"He's gone after James Moriarty," Mycroft explained to Greg and just hearing it said aloud make more sobs break free from my mouth. I could hear the exasperated noise Mycroft made. "John, do please stop crying. You are the reason Sherlock has run off in this little suicide mission. I hope that you will be able to deal with the consequences," Mycroft chided. I could not believe what just came out of Mycroft's mouth, but I reacted violently to it.

"Fuck you!" I screamed at him, pushing away from Greg and grabbing the untouched teacup from the table. I threw it at Mycroft in my blind rage and felt only a small amount of relief as it crashed against the man. "You are the one who got him involved with Moriarty in the first place!" I strained my voice even further with my shouting. There was a split second where I saw blood oozing out of a cut on Mycroft's left cheek before Greg took action and tackled me.

I landed with a heavy thump on the floor and choked out a gasp at the pain that erupted from my back. Greg had landed on top of my front while my back took the brunt of our fall. All my wounds were screaming in agony as newly awakened tears poured forth from my eyes. I grit me teeth and tried not to yell out. Greg and Mycroft now realized the bad decision.

"Shit," Greg cursed and pulled himself off me. Through the tears, I could see a worried frown on Mycroft's face. At least he did not hate me for what I just did to him. I could feel my consciousness slip as the burn intensified. Black spots dotted my vision and I let my eyes slip closed and my world faded to black.


	7. Chapter 7

I woke with a start and my arms shot out around me. I sucked in a sharp breath and snapped my eyes open. I then lurched up off an unfamiliar bed. When did I get on a bed? I blinked my eyes to clear my vision and ignored my aches in pains. I think I am in Greg's bed, but I am not completely sure at this point.

Memories flashed back to me quickly as I remembered throwing the teacup at Mycroft and then Greg tackling me. Oh god, I hope Mycroft will not kill me. I ran my hand through my hair and tried to remember more of what had happened. The sheets were warm around me and I brought a hand up to rub my messy hair down. A soft clearing of the throat startled me and I looked over to see Mycroft sitting on a chair next to the bed.

"Oh god, I so sorry," I apologized rapidly, moving over to the side of the bed to get a closer look at the cut on his pale cheek. It was stark red and stood out sharply against the creamy color of his skin. I must have looked quite funny trying to untangle myself from the sheets so quickly.

"It's quite all right," Mycroft told me while holding a hand up to stop me in motion, "I must apologize for my behavior as well," the elder Holmes concluded. To say in the least, I was shocked. He was sorry? I am the one who threw the teacup at him!

"I still should not have done that," I pressed on, feeling terrible for what I had done. Mycroft just shook his head and rested his hand back in his lap.

"I completely understand where you were coming from," Mycroft sighed then. I could see he was just as tired as I was. It then hit me that this was Sherlock's brother, and even though they never got along, they were still very close. How could I be so blind? People other than me care about Sherlock too.

"Where is Greg?" I asked, not noticing his company in the room. I could not hear him fumbling around downstairs either.

"He had to go into work for a few hours, but he does send his apologies," Mycroft answered my question quickly. I looked down at myself to see I was wearing one of Greg's team rugby shirts and sweat pants. I could also feel that my bandages were replaced with new ones. It felt a little haphazard, but they were secured well. "Greg insisted that we get you cleaned up," Mycroft answered the question I held in my eyes this time.

I buried my face in my hands in shame. If they had cleaned my wounds then they would have seen the extent of my injuries. I know Mycroft and Greg already knew of the injuries, but never before had they seen them. I wanted to sink into myself because of the embarrassment. I felt the same as when Sherlock saw the wounds for the first time.

"It hurts," I mumbled out to Mycroft, feeling ever so weak in this position. There was nothing I could do to make the physical and emotional scars that Moriarty caused go away. "I miss him," I choked on the last word and attempted to calm my breathing. I did not want to cry again. I had done enough crying in the past day.

"I know you do," Mycroft said, his voice finally sounding like that of an older brother. I did not dare look at him; I did not want to see the pain reflected in his eyes. "We all miss him John," Mycroft placed a hand on my shoulder as I wiped away the water from my eyes.

"What are we going to do?" I questioned, but it went unanswered for a long time. Mycroft and I just sat in silence. I was still rubbing the tears from my eyes and his hand stayed as a comforting weight on my shoulder. It grounded me and let me know that this was real and really happening. If Mycroft did not know what to do yet, then we would not stand much of a chance in trying to track down Sherlock.

From downstairs, we both heard the front door creak open and close. Then we heard Greg's shout of, 'Bollocks, it's freezing out!' To be truthful, both Mycroft and I cracked a smile at that. I managed to get myself out of the bed and standing with minor help from Mycroft. We both traveled downstairs with me going slower than usual and into the living room where we all sat earlier in the day.

Greg was in the kitchen putting away a few groceries he bought on his way home. The teacup mess was gone and Mycroft took his seat in the chair once more. I sat on the couch again as Greg walked in. In his hands, he held a glass of water and the bottle of my prescription painkillers.

"I stopped by your place and picked these up for you," Greg told me and handed the pill bottle and glass to me. I nodded approvingly and took two of the white pills before drinking half the glass of water and setting everything onto the coffee table.

"Any news on Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned, his voice reverting from the brotherly tone he used on me and into the more serious tone he usually used. Greg sighed and shook his head as he took his seat next to me. I inwardly groaned, but I had not been expecting much of anything either.

"I have not seen or heard anything since he's left," Greg told us in an exasperated tone. He was also one of the ones who cared about Sherlock a great deal. "Surely he would have told someone he knew so they could help him," Greg muttered to himself.

Now, the words he just said sounded stupid and idiotic, but that is exactly what Sherlock would want us to think.

"I need to go to St. Bart's," I said suddenly and firmly, gaining a courage that I had not felt in a long time. This shocked both Greg and Mycroft, as they were now staring at me.

"Why?" Greg questioned, not putting my words and his words together to form the same thought. I almost wanted to make a Sherlockian comment, but I refrained from doing so.

"Because surely he would have told someone, and I think I know just who," Mycroft answered for me as he got to his feet. "Come now John, we have some questions that need asking," Mycroft said as he walked to the door. Greg watched me as I stood, still looking confused. I just smiled at him as I followed Mycroft out the front door.

"We'll be back soon," I called to him before closing the door behind me. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Now maybe we stood a chance at finding Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

"Molly!" I shouted in happiness upon seeing the mousy haired girl. She was sat at one of the empty lab tables. Sitting on the pale, white linoleum in front of her was a half eaten sandwich, a bag of crisps, and an iced tea. She must finally be taking a lunch break, seeing as it is a bit late in the afternoon for most people. She looked up, her brown eyes widening at seeing me up and about and Mycroft who followed behind me. I could almost see the glint of fear flash in her irises before she blinked and smiled at me.

"Hi John," she said with a smile at me, and then looked towards Mycroft, "And hello…" Molly trailed off, not knowing how to address Mycroft.

"Mycroft Holmes, but you may call me Mycroft," he filled in the silence quickly and extended one of his pales hands for her to shake. I noticed that the pallid tone of his skin matched that of Sherlock's, yet Mycroft's fingers were pudgier. It was probably caused by his past of childhood obesity, which is a story for another time. She reached her own hand out to shake his and went back to addressing me.

"So what brings you two here. Popped in for a nice chat?" Molly was all smiles, but I could see past her calm demeanor. Her right hand shook ever so lightly when she held it out for Mycroft. I could see the slight crinkle of her brow as she held back her thoughts and her overall posture was stiff. Not only had I been trained to spot fear when I was in the army, Sherlock also taught me a few skills of deduction. I grinned back at her, not wanting to give away the fact that I now knew that Sherlock talked to her. Mycroft also had and air about him that said, 'I know what you're thinking, and you should be afraid'. It paid off to have the British government on your side once in a while.

"Something like that," Mycroft answered first before I could say anything. I saw her stiffen up a bit more before relaxing. Her fingers played with the hems on her pink sweater's sleeves. I did not want to scare or worry her, but I really was not in the mood for skirting around the subject. Being upfront about it would get me the answers I needed quickly and effectively.

I took a seat on one of the four-legged stools next to her and hummed in content as it took the weight off or my sore legs. The cab ride to the hospital had been better than walking. During that time in the cab my painkillers had kicked in full force and I felt great for the first time in a couple days. Although now, I was much too cold. I did not bother to even grab a jacket when I left Greg's but I had stolen a pair of his loafers. I shivered and gooseflesh raised tiny little dots all over my skin.

Molly must have noticed this and realized that I had been dumb enough to not bring a coat. If that was not a dead giveaway to her that I rushed her, I not know what would be. She reached over and pulled her beige overcoat from where it lay on the end of the desk and handed it to me. Her eyes were warm and her smile was bright, and I knew then that Molly had known why I was here the whole time.

"Thanks," I murmured, slipping in on and buttoning it up for a snug fit. I instantly felt warmed by the woolen material. I then realized I missed the feel of Sherlock's cashmere scarf around my neck. I sighed audibly and took away my façade of happiness. "I am sure you know why I am here," I started, letting my eyes stray away from her face to the table. "I know you talked to Sherlock."

Mycroft stood by as I confronted Molly. I was not sure whether he did not know what to say at this point or if he felt that what he would say would be distasteful. Whichever it was, I was almost glad that I was the one who got to do the talking. I ran a hand over my sandy blonde colored hair as I waited for her to respond. She was very apprehensive, but soon gave in.

"I- er, yes, I did," she stuttered out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I nearly rolled my eyes. I already knew that much and she could tell that from the look on my face. "Well, more like he came to talk to me. It was very early this morning too," she let out a timorous laugh, attempting to ease the tension that had settled into the lab room. I now understand how accidentally annoying Molly could be. It grated on my nerves a bit, but I kept me cool. It would not due to blow up at a friend again, seeing as this time I do not think I would just throw a teacup.

"What did he say?" I asked instantly, not wanting to dote on useless chatter. Mycroft also seemed to be in the same mood. He now decided to open his mouth and speak. Molly and I both looked up at him as he did.

"We need to know everything he said in as much detail as you can remember," Mycroft supplied, wanting Molly to just get on with it. It was not like any of this was actually hurting her or going to hurt her. Unless Sherlock died, but my thoughts were not about to go on thinking about the 'ifs'. I shook my head slightly to clear those thoughts away.

"He told me he was leaving, something about going after a certain James Moriarty," she answered, a look of concentration casting across her face as she tried to remember. "He did not say where he was going, but he said he had a few leads to follow. He told me to keep an eye on John and make sure he was okay," Molly was now fiddling with her phone in her pocket. It seemed nothing more than a nervous habit, but Sherlock rubbed off on me quite a bit and my brain started deducing.

She was already on edge, not used to be questioned so strictly and quickly. Her fingers doted on the unlock button on the side of her phone, as if expecting an incoming message. Molly never usually sent out texts or talked to anyone in general, unless it was answering Sherlock or replying to him about experiments and others things. Going back to all of the events, I remembered Sherlock had left me with his phone. It currently resided in my jeans pocket at Greg's house. If Sherlock and Molly usually talked, and Sherlock had trusted her enough to tell her face to face he was leaving, then he must have another means of communication.

"Give me your phone," I commanded her suddenly, holding out my hand with the palm facing up. She froze in her seat and yanked her hand out of her pocket. I nearly smirked upon finding out my deductions were correct. "Molly," my tone turned sour. The Captain in me was coming out and I knew she could not disobey.

She pulled out her pink covered phone and handed it over to me. I instantly unlocked it and went to her inbox. Sure enough, several texts from an anonymous number were there. I quickly scrolled and then opened them all up into a chat.

_Be sure that he is safe and taken care of. -Anonymous_

_I'm trailing my first lead now, have you checked on him? -Anonymous_

_I've obtained more information. I may need extra help soon. -Anonymous_

_**Nope, haven't checked on him. Let me know what I can do. -Molly**_

_For now, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. -Anonymous_

Scrolling through the texts, my eyes watered. Of course Sherlock would still be thinking about me through this all. I did not know whether that made the ache in my chest worse or better. I re-read the messages again and then typed out a reply in Molly's voice. I really did need to stop stealing people's identities.

_**He is broken up. He can barely function. Are you sure he will be okay? -Molly**_

I almost expected no reply, but after a second I did receive one. Molly and Mycroft were watching me closely as I stared down at the brightly lit phone.

_He'll be fine. He was a soldier. No more contact until I say. -Anonymous_

I wanted to throw the phone at the wall, but it was Molly's after all. I absentmindedly wiped at my eyes and handed the phone off the Mycroft. "Track that number if you can and see where you can get with it," I said. My voice sounded too gruff and tired for someone who had just slept for several hours. Mycroft quickly took it from my hands and slipped into his brown suit pocket. Molly looked between the two of us for a long moment.

"So, what about me then?" she piped in. She did not seem upset that her phone had been confiscated. I rubbed my hand on my forehead to ward off and oncoming headache. I then unbuttoned Molly's coat and handed it back to her before standing. I adjusted Greg's Rugby shirt across my bandages that had loosened up a bit and stood straight in military posture. I was nearly looked down my nose at Molly.

"You stay out of it and live your life as you were," I answered her without elaboration. "Mycroft will refund you with a new phone and then that shall be that," I smoothly spoke, naturally reverting back into Capt. John H Watson. Molly's eyes looked like a kicked puppy's, yet I could not bring myself to feel any remorse. I wanted Sherlock back, and if I had to be forceful about achieving it, then so be it. For an added kick, and for her to know she had upset me, I stated, "I hope he comes out of this alive, or it will be on your head for not stopping him." I turned on my heel and walked out of the room with Mycroft hot on my tail. Just upon the elder Holmes's closing of the door, I could hear a soft sobbing coming from Molly.

"You handled that better than expected," Mycroft commented dully as we walked down the hallway and away from the room we left Molly in. He was tapping away on his phone, most likely hailing for a car to pick us up. I still held my back straight and kept my posture tight, but I nodded quickly at Mycroft's comment. The cool air of the hospital caused me to get gooseflesh again and I could not suppress a shiver.

The tapping noise stopped and as I continued to walk, I heard the rusting of fabric. Abruptly, Mycroft's suit jacket was being tucked around my shoulders bringing a feeling of brotherly love and warmth with it. I stopped in my tracks and stared up at Mycroft who was adjusting the cufflinks on his lavender shirt.

"Why?" I asked him in slight awe, letting the stiffness melt out and away from my body. He finished adjusting his brass cufflinks and looked to me. The stormy blue color of his eyes nearly shocked me. Sherlock's eyes were so bright, yet Mycroft's were the opposite. An amused look appeared on his face and I could see bits of ginger poking out in his brown hair.

"It would not do you any good to get a cold on top of everything else," Mycroft voiced faintly. "Sherlock would never let me take care of him, so I hope you do not mind my actions upon you," Mycroft declared with a subtle head nod. I pulled the brown, fitted jacket tighter around my shoulders.

"Not at all," I responded in a hushed tone. It seemed to me that Sherlock was not the only Holmes who was wrongly acclaimed to having not heart. Continuing my trek through the hospital, Mycroft and I exited through one of the employee exits rather than going through a main exit. Just outside the doors and pulled up onto the side of the street was the telltale unmarked black car that used to kidnap me and take me to Mycroft. I trudged to it and opened the door, slipping into the heated warmth.

Mycroft slipped in beside me and pulled out Molly's phone once more. He silently handed it up to Anthea (or whatever her real name happened to be) who sat in the front passenger seat. "You know what to do with that," Mycroft directed her and then focused on the driver. "Make a stop at two-hundred and twenty-one b Baker Street before returning to DI Lestrade's," Mycroft ordered soundly and then sunk back into the leather seat.

I, after securing my seatbelt, brought my legs up to my chest and wrapped Mycroft's jacket around me as much as possible. Why did London have to be so cold? I shivered again and could not wait to get back to somewhere warm and deal with some of my looser bandages. They started to get irritating. I found myself beginning to question Mycroft's motives. "Why are we stopping at my flat and then going to Greg's?" I asked, looking over at Mycroft and patiently waiting for an answer.

"I plan on having you stay with Greg for the time being," Mycroft answered me in a voice that said 'you're going to listen to me whether you like it or not'. "I figure you would like to pick up some clothes and amongst other things," he added on in the end. I nodded my head. It would be too lonely to stay in the flat all alone, and the thought of Sherlock would nag at my day in and day out.

"All right," I found myself agreeing to Mycroft's words. I am sure Greg already knew about the whole plan and had been informed of the little information we obtained on Sherlock. All I wanted to go now was go and curl up in a warm bed and sleep the rest of the day and night away. I realized that I should probably attempt to eat something before doing so, seeing as Mycroft and Greg would want to force me to eat if I did not. "Are you going to stay for dinner?" I asked Mycroft suddenly. I was unsure as to if he had eaten or not as well.

Mycroft contemplated me for a moment, calculating the pros and cons of eating at Greg's. He gave a small nod and pulled his phone out, probably to inform Greg that he would indeed be staying for dinner. I felt better upon seeing Mycroft's response. Greg would end up talking away the evening by asking Mycroft numerous questions and I would be graced with not having to speak and to be able to think. If Mycroft had not agreed, Greg probably would have driven me up a wall with questions or talk of this and that.

I could feel my headache coming back on again, but I ignored the light pulsing behind my eyes when I closed them. The hum of the vehicle's engine blocked out the other sounds of London and I focused on the pain blossoming in my head. I really needed to eat. As Mycroft had said, it would not do me any good to get sick. I sighed quietly and huddled in closer on myself to keep body heat.

In no time we had arrived back at 221b Baker Street. I stepped out of the car after Mycroft and made quick work of unlocking the door and stomping up the steps. I could hear Mrs. Hudson's voice down the stairs behind me, and Mycroft intercepting her and chatting nicely. I stomped into the sitting room and made a beeline for the bedroom. I automatically pulled out an old duffel back and started packing clothes into it.

I packed all my jeans and jumpers. I then packed socks and boxer briefs. I tossed in a pair of my slippers to go along with the collection. I paused and looked at all of the shirts and suits lining Sherlock's side of the closet. He purple shirt stuck out among the black of his suits and light colors of the other shirts. I pulled it out and packed it to, hearing an old memory of Sherlock commenting on my sentimentalism. I then grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown from the bed and folded if before tucking it in with the clothes.

I walked the short distance to the bathroom and grabbed my medical kit, full of extra plasters and bandages for my wounds. I collected my toothbrush and razor and packed those into my medical bag. I did a once over in the bathroom to check if I forgot anything. Once deeming it okay, I walked back into my room to gather the duffel bag. I set the bags onto the kitchen table and went into the sitting room to collect my laptop and charger. I securely packed that away before heading to my writing desk.

I opened the top left drawer and pulled out my gun and extra clip of bullets. I then pulled out the small, metal case they belong in and set about packing up my gun. I was not sure how long Mycroft would want me staying with Lestrade, so I wanted to be prepared for anything. At that time, Mycroft had finally ended his conversation with Mrs. Hudson and had joined me in the living room.

"Have everything you need?" he asked me, watching as I stored the gun case safely into the duffel bag. I nodded my head mutely. "Mrs. Hudson has been informed of things and promises to keep the flat tidy so long as you come visit her for tea tomorrow," Mycroft informed me with a little quirk of a smile. I wanted to smile back, but the weight of Sherlock being gone rested to heavy on my shoulders when I was in the flat.

"I am ready to go," I nearly whispered, not wanting to stay in the flat for much longer. Mycroft watched me closely and then nodded his head. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. I grabbed my medical kit to carry and he hefted the duffel bag, not wanting me to open my wounds again. On the way out the door, I grabbed my cane that was leaning against the corner of the wall. I knew I would need it. I then hobbled down the 17 steps leading away from 221b Baker Street. I hoped in my head that the next time I would step foot in there would be with Sherlock at my side.


	9. Author's Note

Hey guys! I feel awful. I'm going to be posting this note on both A Chance to say Goodbye and Drunken Nights. I'm so, so sorry for not having any updates lately. I have tried to type, but I can't. I have little to no motivation and no inspiration, so I need your guys' help. By that, I mean I need help with getting motivation and inspiration.

If you have any ideas or things you'd like to see in my stories, let me know. I'm always open to ideas.

Just tell me anything that might give me motivation. Offer me good songs that will make me want to write. Anything. You can private message me any and all ideas you have to help me along. It would be appreciated. Hopefully I can pull out a chapter for each of these stories before the end of the month.

Thanks! Bye for now!


	10. Chapter 9

The immediate moment I stepped back into Greg's house, I shed Mycroft's jacket. Mycroft was just behind me, carrying the duffel bag once more so it did not strain my wounds. I sighed and leaned on the cane as I walked upstairs. I still carried my medical bag with me. I could smell the poignant scent of tomato sauce and basil coming from Greg's kitchen and deduced he was making pasta.

At the thought of deducing anything, I thought of Sherlock. A twinge of pain shot through my chest as I finished stepping up the last step and onto the upstairs level of Greg's house. I made a beeline for the bathroom and shut myself up in it, locking the door behind me and leaning my cane against it. I set the medical bag up onto the counter next to the sink.

I braced my arms on the edge of the porcelain and look into the mirror. I took in the sight of bags under my eyes and the worry lines on my forehead. I reached for the tap and turned the water on cold. Standing straight, I opened my medical bag and pulled out a couple rolls of bandages. They were in separate, sterilized packages.

My cuts and burns on my legs were not bad and nearly healed up to the point where they needed no bandages, so I did not bother with them. Shrugging out of Greg's borrowed shirt, I began to unwrap the now pinkish bandages from my chest and back. I winced as a few scabs were pulled, but it was an easy process.

I could see fresh pink skin around the edges of the whips marks and see that the blisters from the burns were practically gone. I gave myself a little smile in the mirror as the progression of healing was great. I binned all the old bandages and reached for a small washcloth that rested next to the sink. I ran it under the cold water and let the green fabric darken from the moisture.

I then rung it out and started to clean around my wounds. It took longer than the stripping of the bandages, as I had to contort a bit and move around so I could see what I was doing in the mirror. With that over with, I rinsed the rag out and tossed it into the nearby hamper. I reached my arms up, my right going higher than my left because of my past bullet wound, and stretched out. I pulled more of the scabs and hissed as they burned, but it felt good to stretch out. Rolling my neck, I grabbed one of the rolls of bandaging and opened it.

I quickly unfurled the end and started wrapping. This time around I decided to wrap them around my entire torso instead of making sure just to cover my injuries. I knew that in the end I would look like a mummy, but it did not matter. As I worked I thought of how I should have asked Greg where my ointments and creams were, but skipping them once would not severely harm the healing. I finished wrapping after roughly ten minutes and tossed the empty plastic packaging into the bin.

I zipped up my bag and picked Greg's shirt from the floor. I had my own clothes to change into now, so I tossed his shirt into the hamper with the rag. After unlocking the door, I stepped out into the hallway and limped with my cane and bag into the guest bedroom across from Greg's room. He had set it up for me and Mycroft must have placed my duffel onto the bed. My pills were on the nightstand with a bottle of water, probably courtesy of Greg. I left them alone as I was not due for another round of medication yet. Tossing the medical bag haphazardly onto the bed, I undid the closing on my duffel and pulled out my red, cashmere jumper. I slipped in on over my bandages, now being careful of opening scabs back up.

"Nice in here," I mumbled to myself as I looked around the room. The walls were painted a deep burgundy with a deep orange trim. The wood of the bed's headboard and footboard were made of mahogany, as was the dresser near the closet and the desk nested into the corner by the window. The drapes were a rich cream color to match the carpet and the sheets on the bed. The duvet and throw pillows were a design with a mix of red, burgundy, orange, and cream. It all blended nicely and made me relax.

"Very homey," I breathed out as I leaned on my cane. I heard the distant call of my name from downstairs and assumed dinner was ready to be served. Limping out of the room, I figured I could unpack my things later. I trudged back down the steps, around the railing, and through the sitting room to the kitchen. The table was set for three where Mycroft and Greg were already seated. They looked pleased to see me finally down with them.

"Sorry, I was changing my bandages," I said almost sheepishly, carefully sitting down in the seat where a piping plate of spaghetti sat waiting for me. It looked and smelled delicious. I then realized just how hungry I was.

"No problem, Mycroft and I were just chatting about cases and such," Greg answered with a smile, lifting a fork and digging into his food. I smiled and began to twirl small bites onto my fork. As I had guessed, Greg chatted away for Mycroft, leaving me to my food and thoughts.

My thoughts wandered to Sherlock. Mycroft had Molly's phone now, so there was a chance at tracing the number Sherlock was texting off of. No promises on being able to track him with it, but I had hope. Next was that if we kept using Molly's voice, we would be able to obtain information from Sherlock up to a point. That would leave him open to give away his location.

My thoughts came to a halt. Sherlock was smart enough to realize when it was someone else who was texting him. He would also catch on soon, seeing as he was obviously using Molly for help. I set down my fork with a near silent sigh at the thought. Therefore, the phone really was not much use after all.

"Something wrong?" Mycroft asked, peering at me from across the table. I noticed Greg was also staring at me with a small frown. I quickly placed a small smile on my face and shook my head.

"Just thinking and I'm full already," I answered with mostly the truth. My stomach was actually protesting to the food now as I stressed out. I knew that Greg would buy the smile, but Mycroft would most likely see right through it. "I'm going to excuse myself now, you two continue chatting about whatever it is you were," I said, not noticing that I barely ate half of my food.

I made as hasty of a retreat as I could with my cane and trotted up the stairs. I could feel my stomach rolling and I made it into the bathroom in time to wretch into the toilet. I could feel tears burn at the edge of my vision as I lost what I had eaten and kneeled on the floor. Soon enough I was just spitting up bile and shuddering at the taste. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I straightened and flushed down my sickness. Turning the tap onto cold once again, I rinsed out my mouth and splashed my face.

I leaned heavily on my cane as I walked into the guest room, now being my room. Lifting my bags from the bed and setting them onto the floor, I sprawled myself out above the duvet. I felt my headache come back on worse than before and felt awful. Reaching out, I grabbed my pill bottles and the water and took two more pain pills and one of the antibiotics.

Groaning, I buried my face into the pillow. I could hear a pair of footsteps coming down the hall and looked up as a few knocks sounded on the doorframe. Greg stood there looking a bit troubled and frowning at me.

"Are you all right?" Greg asked me as he stepped further into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. I shook my head into the pillows and shut my eyes as pain coursed through my body. "Need anything?" he asked another question.

"Sleep," I mumbled into the pillows, keeping my eyes shut. "Mycroft still here?" I asked.

"Yeah, he's cleaning up the dishes right now. Do not worry too much right now, John. We'll find him and he'll get an earful from all of us at how stupid he is," Greg chuckled and attempted to make me feel better. Normally, I would have agreed and laughed back. Right now, I was too unwell and upset to positively react. Greg noticed and placed a hand onto my shoulder. "I'll leave you to your rest. If you need anything, just yell," he offered weakly and moved from the bed. As soon as the door shut, I let my eyes fill with tears.

Stupid Sherlock and leaving me here like this. I was a wreck. I was worried for him and what would happen. I had to deal with my injuries on top of it all, which did not make for a great time. Sobbing weakly into one of the pillows, I clutched onto it and let all of my emotions pour out of me.

I could feel a steadily growing damp spot and ignored it as my brain grew fuzzy around the edges. I am not sure how long I actually lay their crying into the pillow before I fell asleep. What I do remember is my headache growing number and my body growing wearier from exhaustion. Soon enough my tears dried up and I had drifted out into a slumber, still clutching the pillow to my chest.


End file.
